


The Bloody Cross

by The_Anomaly_Incarnate



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Bullying, Chara Is Not Evil, Diary/Journal, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Good Chara (Undertale), Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mentions of Myth & Folklore, Nonbinary Chara (Undertale), Origin Story, Orphanage, POV First Person, Physical Abuse, Prequel, The Surface (Undertale), Ugh, Undertale in 2020, chara is verbose, happy birthday undertale, i take these topics seriously though so don't worry, in order to understand chara one must understand the laws of cause and effect, well essentially it is fucked up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:33:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26481964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Anomaly_Incarnate/pseuds/The_Anomaly_Incarnate
Summary: Following twelve years spent living in a squalid orphanage ran by a malicious headmaster, Chara stumbles one day into a decrepit antique shop, where an old woman imparts to them a ghostly legend about the mountain looming just outside the city.
Relationships: Chara/Purple Soul Human (Undertale)
Kudos: 2





	1. The Legend

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings, fellow Undertale lovers of the forgotten age. Today I thought, considering it is Undertale's fifth birthday, that I'd show you a take on Chara's life on the Surface and how I theorize the events which led to their fall and subsequent new life with the Dreemurr family transpired. Needless to say, it's pretty dark and gritty- actually- I'm quite sure it falls into a category of which you could say most people find highly unpleasant. I will be blunt here: this is a story without a silver lining. It is completely grave and completely despairing, filled with anguish, pain, suffering, all the things one could only logically imagine Chara's life was on the Surface. I think the tags do a pretty concise job of explaining it. Even so, I thought I'd take the time to let you know that this work is, in addition to being potentially very upsetting, is also extremely "based." In short, and as you will eventually see if you so choose to read, I make many attacks on Religion, the nature of oppressive belief systems and the justification of Abuse said oppressive belief systems employ to maintain control and power. By no means here do I pull any punches. This is a story about institutionalized cruelty, blatant hypocrisy, the abusive nature of humanity, and how it is impossible to understand Chara without first understanding the laws of Cause and Effect. 
> 
> With these unsavory things aside, I hope you enjoy this work. I perfectly understand if you don't wish to read it. If I was someone else I probably wouldn't want to read it either, since as you've probably gathered by now, I'm quite intense and in all likelihood am coming off as more angry and vindictive than someone with something thoughtful to say. However, knowing that there is no way to change this perception, I suppose I'll end with this:
> 
> Originally this story was written as a onseshot, nearly four years ago. If you can believe it, I actually scribbled the first draft in a notebook while sitting in church, far in the back where no one could see me, let alone intuit that I was up to something treasonous. Since that night, the pages have sat in the corner of my bookcase, gathering dust as time flew by and as I grew increasingly cynical and disillusioned by the conservative-pandering sects of Christianity. Now, however, I can stand it no longer. It's time to show you, though I am no one of importance, what I think. Because just like you, readers, I care about Chara.

DIARY, DECEMBER 20, 2015

Greetings. My name is Chara. Just Chara. I have no last name, because I don't have any parents, or a family. 

I have already learned in my seemingly short time here, the truth about the world. It is a world of hate. Murder. Torture. And I hate it. Likewise, it hates me.

The orphanage is not a nice place. The people there are corrupt and heartless, just like everyone else in this world. I do not want to discuss the details, but then I suppose, the purpose of this diary is to talk about my feelings. If I only had any… 

They beat me. They make me bleed. They say I never should have existed. They are cruel. I hate them. In this world, you can only rely on yourself. Of course, I have no friends, so I have no choice. Every day, life is just a perpetual struggle to survive, nothing more. 

I tried believing in god once. But nobody came. They beat me until I had no more tears left to cry. However, that is a story I cannot tell yet.

I am very thin, or so that is what they say. You (if anyone ever reads this, which will never happen) can probably reckon why. They don't feed me, or at least, not enough. But I don't like food anyway. Most of it is bland and tasteless, just like the village I live in. Of course, I did come upon this substance called "chocolate" once. Once. I had never tried it before, you see, and there was a whole bag of it, just sitting there. So naturally, I tried some.

It was the best thing I had ever tasted in my life. It was like, how do I describe it… consumable happiness. I couldn't control myself of course, and so before I knew it, the entire bag was gone in a matter of minutes. I felt pretty sick afterwards, but it was worth it. I figured that if my life was worth living, I'd be an addict. But who cares... nothing matters anyway. All that was important to remember was that I felt happy that day. Chocolate relieves stress. Despite being really sick after, I can say that I would gladly do that again. I NEED more.

Back to what I said before... I once tried to believe in God. Since there is not much time left remaining, I suppose I will just tell you the story. It’s best to get the rubbish over with. 

One day I was wandering around and I happened to walk into an antique shop. "CELTIC RELICS AND OTHER OBSCURITIES," I believe it was called. I entered the doorway. An old woman was sitting behind a luxurious wooden desk and running the cashier, who I figured was the store owner. She had long, straight white hair, a thin, wrinkled face upon which rested thick, round spectacles, and seemed awfully surprised to see me. But I ignored her. I looked around the place for a few minutes, and found a neat section which had medieval daggers. I always had a fondness for knives. They have many uses. Plus, though it was only a slight urge, I may have felt like punishing myself a bit. 

I picked one up. The old woman eyed me suspiciously. I waved it around. The woman glared at me, yet it was clear she also had a look of fear on her face. Carefully, I put it back. I realized that I didn't want to draw unnecessary attention. It was then that something very interesting caught my eye: a silver cross, decorated with many intricate etchings and patterns on it. As you may have already guessed, I couldn't resist... I picked it up. Its graceful, silver form was beautiful to me. 

At that moment, the woman spoke up. "Ah, what do you have there, child?" She said in a strange voice. Immediately I froze in my place. I didn’t know what to do. Something felt off about her, certainly, but another thought seemed to suggest otherwise. I still don’t know why, but a part of her tone then almost sounded as though she was trying to be nice… which, of course, was dumbfounding. 

I decided that I didn’t want to take any risks. Immediately I looked away and motioned to leave. But she stopped me on my way out. "Wait! Don't go..." I froze once more. 

"Don't be afraid... don't be shy, child. Say, why don't you come here, step into the light for a moment?" 

Though I was almost certain that it was a bad idea, I turned around. Slowly, I walked up to her desk. Her voice, which I just then noticed to bear an unfamiliar accent, suddenly and somehow, sounded soothing… Needless to say, I wasn't used to any of this at all.

"Chara, right?" She asked. I nodded that it was indeed my name. "Ah, I have heard about you, yes," She said in a mysterious tone that instantly made me feel nauseous. 

"What do you have there?" She pointed. Apprehensively, I held up the cross. 

"Ah- the Celtic Cross... a most beautiful relic," she whispered. 

"What is it?" I asked very shyly.

"Why, it is a symbol of medieval Ireland and Wales. It represents the early Catholic Church, and was tied closely to the crown, including Connacht, which is the province I once lived in. But tell me, child. What about it interests you?" She asked inquisitively.

"I just like it, I don't know," I replied, trying my best to sound innocent.

Her eyebrows furrowed peculiarly.

"You are  _ curious... _ tell me, child, do you believe in God?" 

"I don't know… do you?" I answered. 

She looked annoyed. 

"Well, let's say this, child. I know where the true power lies. IN PROVIDENCE," she spoke gravely as she pointed upwards with a long, gnarled index finger. 

_ “Providence…?” _ I muttered. 

A smug, almost sly look emerged on her face.

"Let me riddle you something, child. There is actually another interesting thing about this cross. Tell me… have you heard of The Otherworld?" 

"Perhaps," I shrugged, looking away. 

"Legend says, thousands of years ago there lived an ancient race, a great and powerful empire of magical creatures. According to historical accounts dating back to the 11th century, it was us- the Connachti, who eliminated Paganism and those creatures who inhabited our lands, sealing them underground. Now, child, you see that there mountain, far off in the distance? It is said, the Legends of Otherworld are connected.”

Slowly, presuming by then that she must have been mad, I peered up at the mountain known better as Mount Ebbot. It was here that a sinking curiosity overtook me. The silhouetted peak, filled me at that moment not with cynical apathy as it usually did, but with dread; dread so unusual I had to close my eyes for a moment as though to remember I was not in a dream. Though I tried to turn my head away, I couldn’t; somehow that had become impossible. 

“Of course, some say many things. Some say it was once their stronghold. Others say the mountain is haunted. And, of course, there are those who even suggest that it is the portal to another dimension. Haven’t you heard, child?  _ Those who climb the mountain never return.  _ Therein lies the curse of Otherworld. Rather scary, wouldn’t you say?" The woman nearly cackled. 

Startled out of my trance, I immediately shifted my gaze back upon her, her foggy spectacles now nearly opaque in the dim afternoon light. I was at a loss for words.

"Well now. About that cross- it too is connected. Let us say, in a way, the Celtic Cross safeguards the Portal. Quite neat, don't you think, child?" I nodded weakly. Though I did not know where this was going anymore, I knew I had a very bad feeling about it.

"So then- whether you believe in God and Mary, or trust in  _ Providence, _ you can be sure that the Cross holds a mystical power within. Now, child, tell me. Would you like to have it?"

It was about this point that I nearly passed out.  _ “So, since I picked it up with a wistful look on my face, she suddenly decides to give it to me? Why, what for? To play make-believe about some ghostly myth she had just told me, like some other twelve-year old might? Or because my name is Chara and this is some sort of trap?”  _

Needless to say, I was shocked. This was quite the anticlimax. But all the same, it would be a lie to tell you that I had not suddenly grown very, very interested. 

"But, but-" I murmured meanwhile.

Her lips curved into an odd yet benevolent grin. 

“Tell you what, child. Go- carry this cross, and its powers will protect you wherever you go- free of charge. What do you say? Go on, take it," She insisted. 

I stared at her in bewildered ecstasy. Her smile indicated that she was not only serious about giving it to me, but of everything she had uttered as well. She _ actually _ believed in the legend, which was alarming, to say the least. Yet unlike anyone else in the world I had known up until that point, I could feel for certain then that she wasn’t lying, or at the very least, did not intend to. Such was what staggered me. Though I was utterly certain she was half insane and had meant to petrify me with her strange tale, still I couldn’t help but feel the strangest joy welling up in my heart. She, a mere stranger, despite having _ already heard of me _ from somewhere, promised my protection. Was this display what I would have once called “altruism?” 

Whether it truly was or not, it was here at that moment, as the golden light from the nearby door fell upon its graceful form, that I suddenly realized what truly enamored me about the cross. It was not just that it was beautiful. Obviously, if it was being offered to me by someone so different from the others at the orphanage or the Abbey, it surely _had_ to signify something long forgotten… misunderstood, _but what?_ Suddenly, as if the entire twelve years of my life had been unwound before my eyes, I felt unsure of whether or not anything about my world was true at all. Already I had suspected for many years that a God worshiped by creatures so unworthy of Him had to be all an illusion; that what His Cross signified could not truly be what the lying hypocrites at the orphanage told us it did. But what could the cross signify, to what God could it correspond, if not that? What was the use in the Legend she had told me, and why had she pointed upward with such an eerie look on her face? At first I did not have a clue, but now it was as clear as the gleam of the cross I adored. If a just world existed, if truly at that moment this half insane old woman had shown kindness, real kindness and was not plotting to hurt me, then it was indisputable: the world could not be completely monstrous. And if the world could not be completely monstrous, if there was at least one good person existing in the world, then presuming for a moment, just for a moment that it was true, _somehow_ true that the cross indeed was magical, not merely a dead symbol, and was being outstretched to me by none other than the only person whom I ever saw give such a gift to anyone, expecting nothing in return- and to _protect_ me no less- then what else could this miracle be… what else could this stranger be, but proof that all my delusions were false; that she was, in fact, the instrument of _God?_ _Providence,_ being channeled through her on my behalf, through this mad prophet in the flesh? 

As all these questions collided into each other, I realized that nothing about the world, morality or society or emotion or the artistically cruel nature of human beings made any sense to me anymore. Surely, there had to be a cause, a purpose, a  _ why _ underlying the perpetual suffering of existence? A light side to counter the dark side? A  _ way out? _ In the course of that moment, I no longer knew what to think. But I knew what I desired to believe… what I longed to believe was real.

So I bowed to temptation and I began believing in God. Without another word, and with trembling hands, I finally took the Cross from her gnarled grasp.  _ “Finally,”  _ I thought, in delirium.  _ “Perhaps from now on, God will protect me. Perhaps… tonight, He will prove his existence. Perhaps there will finally be justice.” _

I ran out of the shop as soon as I could, Cross bulging conspicuously out of my pocket as I went. Mercifully, there were only a few people outside, but I trusted no one; especially not with the treasure I now had to call my own. Though by now the sun was setting over the horizon, the mountain was still visible, only half-shadowed by the darkness. I shut my eyes tightly; this was not the time to think about that. As a matter of fact, it occurred to me suddenly that I had- and still have- very little time at all. Stumbling about as though in a fever, I forsook the main streets and cut through the back alleys and narrow corridors. This path was a staple of mine in that it was not only quicker, but also led directly to Ebbot Abbey, where the clock tower would tell me the time, and where crucially, the orphanage stood only a block away to the East. I had snuck out hours ago during lunch, and had not returned since. It was rather amusing, actually. Despite being universally hated by everyone- including the adults- who ran the pitiful rubbish heap, still they expected me to keep up appearances. And now that bars had been nailed onto my window, the only way to escape was to sneak out the far hallway and hop the back fence while everyone else was having breakfast or lunch, and come back before dinner ended, after which point the staff would begin doubling down on security. How ironic of them. Of course, evading any of this was not easy to do as it required you to have one of the extra keys, which, though presently clutched in my hand with all my might, had not been discovered as being missing...  _ yet. _

This was where another problem emerged. As a general rule, bad things happened at the orphanage when one was there to begin with. But to sneak off- that was another matter. There were consequences for that. And that was precisely why I needed the Cross, now more than ever. Today would be the day- somehow I already knew, even then- that would prove whether God existed or not. But for now, I put that out of my mind. 

Eventually, having bursted out of the narrowest alleyway, I found myself standing at the foot of the massive, forbidding cathedral called by the name of Ebbot Abbey, peering straight at the clock tower I’d come to hate with a passion. It was a few minutes past six. Somehow, I had made it. The orphanage scheduled dinner for Six O’Clock every evening; as long as I went straight back, and quietly, I could slip back in from the back door without a soul noticing.  _ “So, I remain alive another day,” _ I thought prematurely.  _ “Above all else, I must keep the Cross a secret. I must not allow it to be stolen. It is my strongest hope now… but I need to think… I need time… I need to get out of here.”  _

I started in a frenzy towards the orphanage, my head swelling with a million different thoughts as I ran. Having turned left on the near street adjacent to the orphanage, I gradually slowed my pace to a walk. I was almost there, only now I had to pretend that absolutely nothing was at stake as I crept my way along the building, along the cage of serpents. Now came the fence. In one swift, gradual motion, I climbed it and jumped off without making so much as a rustle. Suddenly, I found myself standing alone in the far end of the dusty, grassless field of weeds and cracked Earth, staring straight at the back door I knew I ought not to open.

What was I thinking during these moments? What was I supposing would change everything for the better, suddenly, in the blink of an eye? Was I counting on the conspiracy called the Rapture to transpire then, spiriting me away to another realm where I could watch the Earth below fall into chaos and be judged for its sins? Or was I imagining that I could now simply set the entire building on fire in an instant, with the snap of a finger? I don’t remember, nor do I suppose it is important to. All I knew, in retrospect, was that my mind was spinning in horror at the thought of someone finding the Cross, accusing me of thievery, heresy, and every other imaginable lie that would precede the true terror I knew awaited me… The terror I know that always comes, that always comes again, that does not care whether I scream for mercy, or beg for death, whether I sneak out or remain chained to my room, or if I arrive wearing a Cross for protection, or none at all, but cares for one thing only: the suffering of others.

In short, I knew what was coming. But I did not know how I was to escape it. Beyond trying, as I did on principle, to stay as far away as possible from that obscene shape, _The Human_ (I will not name him) _,_ I- at that moment- knew nothing of what I was to do upon sneaking back to my room, nor what the Cross’s power actually was, let alone how to hide or use it. What I did know, if I knew anything at all, was that the only thing I could beware, the one action I had to beware _at all costs_ once inside, was fighting back. The Human never liked that; no, he did not like that at all. Or so he wanted me to believe. Yet deep down, in the sour pit of my stomach, I always knew he did. Deep down, I always knew he salivated at the prospect of beholding the exquisite moment of retaliation. That was all he wanted, or rather, the most he could want out of his game. That inebriating feeling of justification, of utterly annihilating an enemy who, in his depraved mind, actually deserves it, that was exactly what he wanted; _exactly_ what he was after. And that sensation, as I decided then and there that evening, was precisely the thing I was determined not to give him. 

As quietly as I could, I inserted the brass key, swung the door just wide enough to squeeze through, and closed it as it auto-locked back into place. I drew a heavy sigh; yet not one of relief. Trembling, I slowly slunk my way along the wall, and in the most conspicuous way imaginable, poked my head out from out the short hallway, with which the larger one intersected. Yet no one was nearby, no one had seen me. All I could hear at present was the incoherent chatter and jabbering of the cafeteria radiating from the far east side of the orphanage which the hallway I now stood facing led directly, but not a single face or body could be seen, and the doors as I saw in the distance, were closed. To my right, as soundless as ever, lay the other path to the west staircase, which- seven floors up at the top- led directly to my room, situated at the furthest front-right corner of the orphanage. And there were no obstacles blocking it. 

Quickly, I started forward down the path to my right. There was no time to lose. In a panic, I flew up the first flight of stairs, each successive step creaking horribly beneath me as I clawed the railing upwards. It was then that I stopped for a moment. I couldn’t allow anyone to hear my footsteps. I was breathing heavily too, almost hoarsely, and my heart, as I just noticed, was pounding out of my chest. It was here that I also realized that I was apparently shivering- not just out of fear, but from how terribly cold I actually was. Suffice to say, I had a habit of forgetting my physical well-being. For an unusually clear day for winter, it was still forty-five degrees or so outside that evening, and I had just come inside to the orphanage, where it was really not much warmer. But I, in classic fashion, had disregarded that. To tell you the truth, I actually preferred going out in foul weather; that way, I could prove my spite. Of course, that did not matter now. Though I was probably delirious, having not eaten in a day or two either, I had but one goal in mind, and I wasn’t about to walk back down, waltz right into the cafeteria just to warm up and risk being pointed out. 

Having stood there for a few moments now, just long enough to catch my breath and ensure I wasn’t about to faint, I started upwards again, this time very slowly up the rickety steps. Then, just as I was about to turn a left corner, about halfway up the Third Floor, I started to hear footsteps. 

I froze in my position. These were not the footsteps of any kid I knew, nor any ordinary staff. They were slow and subdued, yet heavy, sharp, and dark-sounding all at once, like tollings of a faraway bell. And they were drawing closer. Suddenly, I felt my eyes bulge out of their sockets. This was a sound I had heard many times before, too many times, except that rather than ascending upward as they usually did in memory, this time, they were descending downward. I swallowed. It was then that I knew what awaited me, what horrid figure I’d soon see walking down the steps to greet me. Yet I made no movement. If it was to happen now, there was no point in running down the nasty creaking stairs.  _ No; _ that was precisely the thing I absolutely could not do, not under any circumstances. No one else was around. Running away was the worst of all possible ideas. Running away was suicide. All I could do at that moment was stand there, completely frozen, the left side of my body concealed behind the corner I dared not turn, hoping that the cross which- by the grace of probability- I’d stuffed into my left pocket, would not be seen, that The Human would not choose this moment, but simply would continue down the stairs, as though not having seen me… 

It was then, just as these thoughts had flooded the pit of my soul, that suddenly he stopped. He had emerged from the corner, and just about to start down the next. I will not describe his physical appearance, but will only mention that he wore an expensive-looking black suit with a vest underneath, long dress pants and leather dress shoes. In other words, he was wearing what he always did. He looked at me for an eerie moment with the strangest cold apathy I had ever seen in a human being, turned his face away, and walked straight down, straight past me as though I did not exist. I, in the meanwhile, continued staring petrified into space. I could not fathom what was happening.

_ “Was this the power of the Cross at work? Was this the power of God?” _

Before my thoughts could grow any more feverish, just then, I heard the stairs creak hideously. The footsteps had stopped. The Human, as I quickly understood, had turned around, and now, as if a dark bell had really begun to toll in the catacombs of my spirit, I realized jaggedly that what lay ahead of me that night was no longer only inevitable. It was promised to be unutterable, unspeakable, beyond the ability of language to describe, and that at the end of it- whatever that “end” actually was- one of us might not survive. All the while, I did not dare turn around. There was no reason to see his face. For now, as always, I had no choice but to stand still and suffer.

“Why aren’t you eating in the cafeteria?” He asked in a frighteningly quiet voice.

“...I already finished,” I answered flatly. 

There was a moment of silence that seemed to last a bit longer than it should have. 

“I saw that you had sweat on your face,” He said.

“...Yes. It is uncomfortably hot in there.”

“Then why are you shivering?” He asked slowly. 

Something like ice seemed to sink into my stomach.

“Why should I not be shivering?” I let out suddenly in a dark voice. 

Another frigid moment of silence passed, though this time it lasted longer. I was now shivering violently, far more violently than I had only moments ago, as I fought the feeling that rises just before one passes out. My surroundings, now blurry and delirious, appeared to be spinning; the world which I’d come to hate so vilely seemed to grow darker than it ever had before as I awaited his response.

“You know… you do have a point,” came his reply.

I shuddered. A silent scream seemed to convulse itself throughout my body. My mouth fell upon for a moment, seemingly to cry out, but it gave no outlet. No sound could be produced, nor any suicidal cry for help. All I could do during these moments was listen to the sound of slow, creaking footsteps drawing his presence away, descending ever quietly down the stairs and into the shadows, where they ceased to be audible. I never caught a glimpse of what his face looked like when he uttered those words, but I knew that it had to be revolting beyond description.

As soon as the footsteps had died completely away, I started upward once more, this time in a rage. There was no time to ponder gravely upon what had happened, nor to take any further considerations of what he had meant by those words. At that moment, instinct had taken over; I needed to lock myself away, to lock the Cross away, to slam the door shut, hide in my room and never come out until Judgement Day, and though I knew it was already too late, that all was futile and doomed to perish in horror and agony, still, I had to run. The last words he had uttered,  _ “You do have a point,” _ were echoing in my head, and step by step, floor by floor, the sickening note in his voice was only growing sicker. 

Time seemed to be slowing now, the identical wooden stairs felt to be repeating endlessly; only then had it dawned upon me how horribly sick I myself was becoming. But not for one moment did I dare to stop. As I continued to climb higher, each moment viler than the last, I slowly grew cognizant of something appalling: the voice’s timbre was changing into something demonic and primal, its words no longer resembling the repetitions of The Human’s, but something terrible and vicious beyond description; something I doubt even I will ever hear again. Then for a while everything became a blur. 

By the time I finally did reach the seventh floor, I was all but on the verge of vomiting. The last three flights felt as though they had taken an eternity, and now, I could almost hardly believe I was still alive. As I staggered wildly about, I could feel myself already groping for the far door, my bedroom door that was not yet in reach, only to trip and neary fall several times. The sun-lit hallway felt longer to me suddenly- longer than I had ever imagined it, and though I tried with all my might to run faster than it seemed to be stretching away from me, still I could not seem to close the distance. I don’t remember how long this delirium lasted, or how many times I actually did fall on my face to the floor, but I do remember that once I had, at long last, bursted into my bedroom, lunged for the knob and slammed the peeling door shut, that I sunk slowly down, my back against the door, and thought ravingly to myself in a cold sweat,  _ “He knows… W-what is going to happen now? When is he going to come back? How long do I have until then to hope, to pray to the merciful God who offered me this Cross to protect me?” _

For a long while I sat there, trembling in unspeakable horror at everything this evening had become, how unforgivably stupid I had been to try lying my way out trouble, but soon enough I realized that it no longer mattered. Delirium had taken over completely, and now I had become a slave to survival. I contemplated the possibility of escaping once again, of hiding somewhere where he’d least expect to find me, of even outright prying the bars off my window and running away forever without a second thought, but only just did my better senses restrain me. It was all absurd. I knew, even against instinct, that there was no place to hide. Though out of all others it was true that I was the only orphan who actually slept on the Seventh Floor, all the other doors were kept locked at all times, including the unused ones on lower floors. And supposing I did know of a workaround, or by some miracle was to find the key to them somewhere, I understood that even if I succeeded the first few nights, I would only be able to survive for so long without food and water… which I would have to steal. Such a plan, such futility would only work to postpone what I knew was destiny. Hiding anywhere in this hellish place led only to being caught one way or another; this I had learned a long time ago. 

Thus, I was left with only one other option: escape, permanent escape. But even that was far worse.  _ So where, where would I go then? _ Where in the small world could I go, where I would not simply starve to death on the streets, where I would be capable of surviving on my own when no one desired my survival to begin with? There was no answer because there was no solution. The Human was acutely aware of where I had gone, how I would have had to have stolen an extra key to sneak out, and how I had lied to him about all of it. If ever he had finally found cause in his sick mind to torture me until I lay dangling on the edge of death, he had found it now, and I had handed it to him myself. The putrid words and how he uttered them bore no other possible explanation. With the words he had spoken, he had uttered my death sentence. For the first time in my life, strange as it is to say now, I felt as though I only finally understood what being alone truly was.

The only hopes I had remaining, as I sat there, quivering in desperate anguish, lay in the shimmering silver Cross which I suddenly found myself clutching with both hands, the metal cold and clammy with sweat. Just then I had remembered that still, somehow and by sheer luck only, it had not yet been discovered. Immediately I started up. I had to hide it quickly. There was no telling when he would return, or even if I had enough time left to do even that, to walk to my desk, open the drawers, and jam the Cross inside. The roaring voice was echoing still, growing louder and more deafening in my mind with every passing moment, and now, no effort to plug my ears or grasp my brow could silence them. I could no longer depend on the footsteps to signal his return, nor even the dissonant tolls of the nearby Abbey church bells to tell the time; all other sensations had grown dim. Every atom of my being wanted to run away, as far away as I possibly could from myself, from the devil, from the universe, but all fell to no avail. My temples ached, my body shuddered, the blood in my neck ran cold, and all around me, the entire world seemed to be darkening once more as though I was about to pass out. As I began to stagger feebly towards my desk in mad desperation, it was here that the everything swarming in my soul- the relentless roaring terror, my mounting deliriousness, and the countless indistinct pleas of someone or something to save me- suddenly melted into one overwhelming torment, and finally grew to be too much. With one feverish step, I found myself fading, and then the small, dilapidated room tilted on its axis. Before I could discern anything more, I had already fallen into bed, Cross nestled against my chest as the hellish threats of The Human bade me to clench the cherished object tighter. I had entered something of a hallucination or nightmare, a struggle that was beyond fantasy, and from it, I knew then that I would never wake again. 

The last thought I remember pondering, as I lay there, crying and shivering under the ragged blankets, curled up beneath the twilight glare, was  _ “Where is God? Is He watching?” _ Then I fell into oblivion.


	2. The Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The F slur is used once in dialogue. Sadly, this is how human beings are.

I do not remember how long I slept, nor what time it was when I finally awoke, but by the time I did I could dimly notice that darkness had set in, the full moon had risen into the night sky, and that it was likely that I had slept for hours, and quite heavily. Though in retrospect I knew I was certain of where I was, for some moments my surroundings felt strangely foreign; only half-consciously could I sense that something was off, that something was bothering me, and as such, I did nothing. I felt as though I had awoken from a bad dream, one that I had forgotten, and for a while I was convinced. That was, until I felt my hands wrap around a peculiarly cold object. 

I immediately started up in a fright. All at once the jagged realizations began to sting me. The nightmare had not ended. It was real, the Cross was real, the world in which I lived was real and nothing about it was fantasy. I remembered how The Human had discovered my scheme to sneak out, how he had uttered my death sentence, how just before passing out, I had succumbed to delirium (brought on quite possibly by hypothermia), and that the last memory I had of that dreadful episode involved me burrowing into the blankets, muttering incoherently about how I needed to hide the Cross from the monster that was  _ The Human, _ or, as others knew him better, the Headmaster of the orphanage. All this hit me, squarely like lunging waves of daggers, and in a matter of seconds, I could feel myself growing sick again. That was until, of course, in a similar and sudden fashion as had been with The Cross, a peculiar, almost perplexing thought entered my mind. I remember staring eerily into the moonlight for a moment, literally into space and the stars which decorated the night sky outside my window, when suddenly it dawned upon me: this was not the same sensation, the same sick feeling as before. Something else was the matter now; something definite about the entire course of the previous afternoon’s events, however vaguely they seemed to me at present, had begun to evolve hideously and most unexpectedly; but put more simply, this time, I knew something ulterior in the atmosphere did not add up. 

A feeling of intense confusion washed over me at first, as though I were recalling something deeply disturbing from buried memory, and then compulsion took over. In one swift movement, I fell out of bed, scurried over to the door, Cross in hand, knelt down, and slowly pressed my ear up against the peeling wood. I listened for footsteps. Not a sound could be heard; only perfect quietude. In fact, everything about the scene, my room, the hallway outside, and even the breezeless tranquil night just beyond my window registered to me at that moment as being all unusually empty and quiet… too quiet. I stroked my bang-covered forehead, my eyebrows furrowing nervously in suspicion. A new and far deadlier fear had begun in me then, a dread that soon enough would begin to drown out all others and even now, disgusts me to remotely mention.

_ “It’s night out. My clock reads 11:13 P.M… hours have passed. Why hasn’t he returned yet? Where could he possibly be, if not walking up the steps to the Seventh Floor this very moment?” _

At these thoughts chills rocketed up and down my spine, and once more I became instinctively afraid. I listened again, this time for much longer, but nothing could be heard. The hallway outside was dead silent; in fact, the entire orphanage seemed to be dead silent. But how could that have been possible? In all other instances, even late into the night, there would always be some faint sound of some kind coming from somewhere, especially on the lower floors, where the younger children slept. But tonight was different… far, far different. And why ever would that have been? How ever  _ could that have been? _ Suddenly cold beads of perspiration lined my brow once more as the foul connection between the Cross and the present situation flashed itself across my mind. Yet even then I knew it was all absurd. Though I already knew that something more terrible than I could possibly imagine was in the making, even worse than what I previously thought was beyond my imagination already, still, I could not yet determine the cause. But blind certainty of something horrible beyond words had begun to possess me.

In the meantime I had begun to pace back and forth. My mind was aching with suspicion; nothing about this made any sense. Though I was certain that I was doomed, very obviously it was clear that so long as I heard no footsteps, I was not doomed  _ yet _ . But therein lay the very source of my agony. If I was not doomed yet, that only meant that I could be doomed at any moment, that his demented foosteps would begin their slow, painful ascent at any moment, and that I might as well begin screeching in terror. In short, his movements were always unpredictable and always had been unpredictable, which was precisely why everything was so amiss: because the few patterns of his which were detectable were always most striking of all. Years of terrible experience had taught me that while he rarely came every single night, and would sometimes not come for weeks at all, he was  _ always _ sure to come whenever he had felt the slightest agitation, humiliation, or insult on the previous day, and when he did, he  _ always _ came as early as 10:00 P.M. So, why, out of all nights, would he have chosen to postpone his torture on  _ this _ one? This was the question I could not reconcile. I was dead certain that he hadn’t simply come already and closed the door upon seeing me fast asleep; no, that would have carried a shred of mercy, and that he hated in principle. I knew that had he returned, actually returned, I would not have awoken to a silent room in a silent orphanage. I would awoken to the sound of a creaking door opening, and the sight of a silhouetted figure of a man standing ready to pounce. But neither of those things had transpired, and yet here I was, still alive.  _ So what was going on?  _

After a considerable time spent agonizing over this question, I concluded that there could be only one possible explanation. If he truly had not returned yet, then he had to be on some other business.  _ But what? _ Why was the orphanage so quiet? What could he possibly be doing, aside from biding his time in his office, apparently with not yet enough reasons to have his bloody vengeance? I threw myself onto bed. I was on the verge of recalling the source of a revolting memory, the very same memory that now constituted the source of the new and frightening dread presently overwhelming me. I deduced that wherever The Human, The Headmaster was now, it had to be on business far more obligatory than beating me senseless; which could only be precisely why the orphanage sounded and even felt so much emptier. As for what business could possibly explain such a thing, I was at a loss for ideas; or so I was until suddenly, as if I’d only been trying to deny it the entire time, the horrid realization hit me. The silence could only mean one thing: children were being moved to other orphanages, children from the lower floors and perhaps even the higher ones as well, and they were being moved unannounced. As for why, only one thing was possible as well: The Human was preparing for something, something drastic to counter some massive complication that arose recently, that he had chosen to act ahead of time to eliminate future unnecessary suspicion, and that as for his return, it could now only be a matter of time. 

I sat up quickly, eyes wide and bloodshot, already on the verge of tears. My blood ran cold throughout my body. Then, the hideous implications struck me. The fact that I was still here and not somewhere else had to prove to what end this turn of events had been orchestrated. My prophecies, I was certain now, were all being proven right before me, and now, in all likelihood I had only a few hours left. He was clearing the playing field of all spectators… if ever there was a time to escape, it was now. But once again, where would I go? Was I expecting to be adopted, as though I even could be adopted? No; that was preposterous. The only thing I could possibly do now was wait; wait and pray to Him who I had nearly forgotten, to whom I now laid my life upon. This final night, like so many others before it, was going to be a battle between myself and The Headmaster, but this time, I knew only God would be watching. And such was my luck in remembering; for at that fateful moment, I also remembered another thing I’d nearly forgotten. 

_ “The Cross… what am I doing? I need to hide it now, before anything else-” _

Immediately, my astounded eyes fixed themselves upon the beautiful object I loved now more than anything in the world, and just like that, my attention was diverted. Before another moment indeed passed, I had carried it quickly over to my dark wooden desk, where I soon found myself standing right in front of my window, the blue moonlight reflecting ethereally off its silver form. I gazed intently at my treasure for a long moment, gravely, as though for that instance all things hung in the balance, and with a trembling hand, opened the left drawer into which it would go. Inside, a single object was present- my old journal in which I’d occasionally written, however, simply laying the Cross on top of this would not suffice. I wanted to be sure it would not be found- so, like the fool I was, I decided for whatever reason at that instant, that the journal could not remain, but would be placed on top of the Cross instead, at which moment a fatal thing happened. Upon lifting the dusty journal out of the compartment, I discovered not bare wood beneath, as I was hoping to, but a small, neatly-folded paper I did not remember existing previously. You can probably imagine the horrible mistake I made next. 

Laying down the Cross for the time being, I lifted the pale square up, examined it curiously, and with peculiar shock, realized that it was, in fact, a note. There was no saving me now. Having already unfolded the paper, my eyes swimming with dreadful suspicion, I held it up to the moonlight. What I read next caused me nearly to pass out. 

_ October 27th _

_ Dear Chara, _

_ I hope you’re doing okay. Gathering evidence against the Headmaster had been difficult, but we’re not giving up yet. Though I’m not entirely sure when you’ll find this note, I just want to say, before anything else, I’m sorry for not corresponding with you sooner. As I’m sure you’re aware, things have been getting rather dark around here lately, and unfortunately, direct communication is becoming riskier every day. I’m on the verge of unearthing some very scary things about the Abbey, so scary that now I’ve managed to land myself in a position where I’m unable to talk to you at all. As such, rather than living in silence, I decided I would write to you instead. You deserve to know what is going on.  _

_ Something very dark is taking place beneath the surface of this orphanage, and I have a sinking feeling the Headmaster has ties to the heart of it. Ever wonder where the orphanage gets its funding? Why despite how run down, dilapidated and poor everything is, still it continues to stand? Or how even The Headmaster himself, despite being well aware of this, continues somehow to prosper, living a life of ease whilst flaunting his expensive, luxurious attire? Or how any offhand mentionings of there being an underground cult send him always into childish fury? Something does not add up. There has to be a reason why rarely anyone here is ever adopted, why passerbys look on at this prison with the same suspicion and fear as they do their own precious Abbey. There has to be a reason why this hellish place exists, why the rumors regarding the cult exist, why such a peculiar symbiosis exists, and I don’t think it is to help us orphans.  _

_ That is why, as of right now, the five others and I are evolving a plan to infiltrate the Abbey. Which is also where I should mention immediately… if by chance you happen to discover this note as soon as I fear you will, please, don’t bother begging us to join in. I’ve already made them promise never to place you in any danger. Hell itself lives all around you already. The burden of its undoing it should not rest upon you. Yet, even so, I cannot bear to watch you suffer any longer.  _

_ There is a definite reason why the Headmaster hates you, why this orphanage hates you, why this entire world seems to hate you. And that reason cannot be found by simply sitting on the sidelines. Something must be done about that horrible human being. But in order to do so, we must first have answers ourselves, answers from within, just as you must one day as well. If it is indeed true that an underground cult exists within the ranks of Ebbot Abbey, then the Headmaster must be a member, and his agenda cannot possibly be to help us. That is why, as I told you in person not long ago, we must unfortunately postpone hijacking the school intercom until November, after the infiltration. We cannot defeat evil by singling out a single snake. We can only defeat evil by destroying the nest from which all snakes are born.  _

_ However, that is going to be extremely dangerous. Which is why I must hold true to my previous statement. This burden should not rest upon you. For your own safety as well as our own, I am afraid I must keep you in the dark about specific details pertaining to the mountain for a little while longer. But do not worry. I promise you… one day, you will understand. The truth of this world cannot remain hidden forever.  _

_ Your persevering friend, N---T _

_ October 28th _

_ P.S. - I had intended to implant this message yesterday, but recent developments have proven too startling to omit.  _

_ I’ve discovered that the Headmaster has plans to “transfer” kids. Not simply because keeping them places a strain on his wallet, or his “funds” as he called them during a phone call I overheard whilst lurking outside his office, but because he clearly does not trust anyone. I’m beginning to suspect he’s on to us… hence the reason for the confidentiality. Though I’m not sure when exactly he will decide to put these plans into play, I’m convinced that he intends to keep his cards a secret until the very last moment, whenever that is. Such is particularly why so much hinges on the infiltration. Unless we shut him and the Abbey down before that date arrives, all may well be lost to ash. Thus, the time to act is now. In case we fail however, and the six of us end up being shipped away someday to God-knows-where, or find ourselves groveling at the mercy of the Abbey itself, please, hear me out. I don’t believe the Headmaster has plans to ship you out any time soon. As I said, there is a reason why he hates you so much, and if I’m correct, it can only be because he has set you aside for a very specific purpose. He NEEDS you, but for what, I have no idea yet. Which is why, as of the moment you begin reading these words, you must listen to what I’m about to say and act only exactly as I tell you. _

_ When the day comes, assuming we fail, and you wake up one morning to find masses of kids pouring out of the orphanage holding suitcases, RUN. It doesn't matter where, you must do it. Do not pack anything; be sure to wear only your casual clothes. If you can, hitch a ride on the soonest train out of here, but if not, there is always the bus, for which I will provide you with the money I’ve been collecting. It’s not anywhere near enough to buy a train ticket of course, but it will have to do. Use it as you will. Once again, I cannot stress how important it is for you to do exactly as I say. If the orphanage goes empty, I repeat, RUN. But before you do- just before you do actually- remember this. Hidden in the Headmaster’s office, in his desk, are a carton of brand-new matches. In the basement, at the very back furthest from the trap-door entrance (you know where it is), there is a closet. Hidden in this closet are cans upon cans of gasoline. There is no key to the trap-door as it is hidden under a rug (you know which) in the main hall. The key to the office however, the extra key rather, can be found under a very particular floorboard located just outside the door. You will be able to distinguish it by the subtle way it moves around in place when pressure is applied. Once you pull it out, you will find a small rectangular compartment underneath, and there you will find the key. You will know what to do next. If all fails and the Headmaster does away with us, this will be your destiny. I trust in you, Chara.  _

_ But remember… do not dare speak any word of this aloud to anyone, nor ask any questions, for I will not answer them.  _

_ P.P.S. - While we wait for the big day, assuming all will go according to our plan rather than the Headmaster’s, I’ve figured that I ought to make due on some of my promises. As requested, I retrieved that history book you wanted. It’s hidden under your bed. The money I mentioned is sealed in the envelope taped to the inside cover. You know, you sneaking out every week has been a great distraction for us to work with. Anyway, I think you’ll find it… how do I say this… rather interesting. Why not take a look? _

I will not describe in full detail (and I do not believe it would be possible, either) how the sudden and ever worsening mixture of horror, disbelief, and anguished disgust inundated me during this period in which my eyes had irrevocably glued themselves to this impossible message from the void, but I will say this: no sooner than when the final words leapt off the paper had the letter fallen to the floor, myself into my chair, and my mind into seething turmoil. I was breathless, confused, but most of all, I felt betrayed; no longer simply by this specter I thought I had successfully obliterated from my memory, but by my own self. In a word, seeds of the worst possible kind of doubt had been planted. They were germinating before my very eyes, just as my own fears had begun only minutes ago, but only now had I finally discovered that they had both possessed a common ancestor all this time. To my infinite horror, their roots stretched far into the distant past, down all the way into the abyss, where the two of us had first met. With these demented, sprawling masses of cursive, the hated memory of which I spoke earlier had risen from the dead.

“He knew, even back then… he intended to warn me, just before- just before- just before- just before- j-just b-before-?” Came my trembling voice. 

I should note here, before I continue any further, that I’m well aware that the initial statement I made at the very beginning of this tale, “I have no friends,” may come as a rather stark contradiction in light of present revelations. But alas, shocking though it is, that statement was never entirely true; or at least not entirely true when I actually did  _ once _ possess friends. Thus, I dearly apologize for concealing the existence of this person or the other five until now. That I imagine was in poor taste. However, regardless of whether or not anyone ever lays eyes upon these words, this is a fact I cannot deny: had it not been inevitably necessary, I would have happily never spoken a word about them at all. 

But I digress. 

An old wound, a gaping laceration had been ripped open in my psyche and once more I found myself falling into terror as graphic recollections too senseless and appalling for any twelve-year-old to describe began to stab my brain. I suppressed the urge to cry out in anguish. The long-familiar ghoulish sensation, the scalding inability to reconcile what in the name of God could have possibly transpired to inspire such horrifying change in the soul of this boy between the moment he last spoke to me as  _ himself, _ when he uttered, “We must postpone the hijacking until next week. I’m sorry, I cannot answer questions,” and that hollow day in November when he and the other five led me into the janitor’s storage closet, a mere hour before we had planned to turn the entire school against The Human and whispered, “Here, we have a present for you,  _ Demon,” _ began to possess me once again. Except unlike the entire month before, now, I finally had answers. Just as the letter spelled itself out, there in ghastly moonlight, this boy- this clever, glasses-wearing, pale-faced boy I dared once to call my one true friend, the one truly good person in the entire world- had planned to infiltrate Ebbot Abbey. Something… something had to have happened within those walls, within the secret chambers of which he never stopped insisting were real in between the time he was last himself and the time my world darkened forever. Something had happened to him, to  _ them _ while he was there, something heinous enough to turn him and the five against me. But what?  _ Why? _ To say I understood nothing and was horrified by the fact that all that time, I had never understood anything but still knew absolutely nothing, was a gruesome understatement. Yet the seriousness of his words, vague and grandiose though they were (and mostly always had been), told a story which seemed only to be growing more lucid by the second. The fact that something within him had been altered forever whilst infiltrating the one place where such an unspeakable thing could, as I now saw it, actually occur could only mean that his plans to gather evidence against the cult had failed… and that the very thing he feared would happen if he did, the orphanage being emptied of children for malevolent reasons, was now finally coming to pass. He had to be right; the present situation was perfectly in sync. This, I was positive, was proof. 

I was devastated. All the sudden, beyond all control and by degrees I could not believe, I could feel the hatred and malice that had raged so bitterly in my soul- for what felt to be so much longer than a single month- melting away. My face contorted itself for a long moment in grief, the kind that precedes tears, as I slowly became seized by desperate longing to forget everything I had just read and die right where I sat. But it was to no avail. A horrible shame had begun in my soul; a weight unlike anything I had ever felt before seemed to sink itself into my heart. Even if I could forget now, I knew then I could never bring myself to do it. After so long, and in the worst way imaginable, the gravity of the guilt I had now to bear had finally begun to manifest itself to me in plain sight. I suddenly felt that what I had done was unforgivable. I had grown to hate him (whose name I must not mention, but will simply refer to him onward as N), to utterly loathe his existence. I had come to regard him and the other five as nothing more than traitorous monsters of such twisted character that even The Human at times seemed saintly by comparison.  _ Yet I was wrong.  _ They had betrayed me, yes, but now I understood it could not have been by free will that they chose to. The cult N always talked about had to protect itself some way, after having given in and confessed I knew of its existence, surely? This was the only possible way it could have transpired; it  _ had _ to have been. And now that it was as clear to me as the tears which had begun streaming down my cheeks, that the reason why he and the five had locked all of us in that closet had been to eliminate me at the behest of the Abbey, it was no longer any surprise, why The Human had now chosen such a peculiar course of action. Not only had he been receiving funds from the Abbey- and had been undoubtedly ever since before I was born- he had also, evidently, been tasked with carrying out the cult’s dirty work. Thus, by clearing out the orphanage, he could only be doing what had been asked of him. Wherever the others, perhaps including even the now-brainwashed six were being sent off to, the fact that I was still here- far worse than what I feared already- was proof that The Human was coming to finish the job the others had started, yet… only by the sheer luck of the custodian opening the closet to save me from being choked to death… stopped. 

That was why N, my once-best friend, had told me to run far, far away the day such a thing as was happening now took place. Everything he had told me in the note, the fatal revelation, had been only for my benefit. Every previously doubtful and insane conspiracy he had told me about the Abbey, about the cult, about The Headmaster was true. The kind, brilliant, courageous person he was had seen unthinkably far into the future, so eerily and unnaturally far that strangely, the manner he had written the note made it sound almost as if he was already certain then that he was doomed to lose. Yet, in spite of that, he had chosen to go through with the infiltration anyway… for my protection… and he had done so without me. 

“W-why… why, if he was so sure, did he not at least tell me? I c-could’ve helped him. He d-desired to help me. W-we had the same goal,” I whispered in the darkness, my lips quivering. 

“N-now, he is gone.”

For many long moments I wept, my face buried in my arms as a profound aching sensation of powerlessness slowly tore and engulfed me. I felt a seething compulsion- many times stronger now- to run away then, to embrace the chaos and accept this abominable world for what it was and accept death my own way; the way N and the others would have wanted, but still, somehow after all these years, I couldn’t. I felt as though I had been frozen in a sheet of ice, paralyzed by grief, fossilized and rendered utterly ineffectual. Eternities seemed to pass as I sat there, sobbing eyes shut closed, every second passing as though several years, every minute its own century, continuing so on until the end of the world, yet still I could not move nor even feel a single muscle. Regret had consumed me, hatred of the Human, hatred of the Abbey, hatred of the world, but most of all, hatred of myself had hollowed me. But little did I know, the true end was only beginning. Just then, as though to start the entire cycle again, came once more the shattering pangs of disbelief.  _ “Why couldn’t I have found the note before? Why couldn’t I have summoned the courage to open my accursed desk drawer before the stake was driven into my hopes and dreams?” _ As these questions died in silence, it was here that, for the last time I would ever recall in my imagination, the vivid memory of how I first met this peculiar boy,  _ N, _ spirited me into the bitter warmth of the past. 

It was a Tuesday afternoon, September 15, only three months ago. School had just begun again, and though we were only in the second or third week, it was clear that vastly everyone had already found their place according to the long-standing rules of the social hierarchy, and as such, I had once again found myself at the very bottom. Seeing as I had no choice, I had taken to staying twenty minutes after school, not simply to avoid hushed whispers and murderous glances while walking back to the orphanage, but because of the very real possibility there was of being jumped. That year, a new and rather frightening group of bullies had just emerged from the shadows, and their leader, who I’ll refer to as Jack, had held a vendetta against me for years. 

As you might imagine, I was in dire straits, and after having spent weeks silently enduring his threats and insults in the hallways between classes, I had just about had enough. It had been raining hard all that day and only now, having just emerged from the library a literal hour after school had ended did it appear to be letting up. Looming layers of fog covered the hallways, obscuring the puddles that had since collected everywhere, but as far as I could see, I was alone and all was silent. At first I began walking, but being as I was already unusually late and at this rate was sure to be interrogated by the Human when I returned, my steady walk quickly devolved into a nervous sprint. Blitzing down the shaded hallway, I readied myself to turn a hard left and enter the next one, when suddenly, someone’s leg poked out from behind the corner. First I felt an appalling lurch come from my stomach, next, the peculiar sensation of flying, then finally, the collision of my body against cold, drenched pavement. The next moment I realized that I was being pinned to the ground by three large shapes jeering in victory, who, as I quickly recognized, were actually Sean, Justin and Brandon; new lackeys of Jack, and that the chief figure himself, the one who had tripped me was kneeling just behind me, breathing down my neck. 

“So. Looks like we finally found you. Impressive… You really thought you could escape us, didn’t you? Well, that’s nice. And here I almost thought you were a fucking genius,” uttered a vicious voice, Jack’s voice, and at once the world turned into horror. I was being crushed by three human beings- not grotesque monsters from a nightmare-  _ sentient individuals _ who knew exactly what they were doing. Pure rage, inhuman rage surged through my veins as every screaming bone in my body recoiled violently in disgust. Yet meanwhile, amidst the atrocious terror, I discerned that I could also hear another voice. In that moment, a primal sound, a feral cry I didn’t recognize as human had begun piercing my ears. An instant later, I realized that it was my own. I knew what was happening, why it was happening, why suddenly nothing mattered and how absolutely nothing was fair to them but my destruction. Suddenly I was an animal being devoured by others, except unlike other animals, I was not being devoured for the sake of survival or instinctual predation. I was being murdered for who I was within, for hatred of the fact alone that I was Chara, that I was still alive, and that others, not just the Human, found that deeply disturbing. All of this came flashing before my eyes; at once I felt certain that soon I would finally die, that truly no one on Earth wished for my survival, and yet, all I could do was scream for mercy.

“W-what do you want out of me? W-what is that you want? W-what do you want!?” I stuttered helplessly, choking in puddle water.

Jack leaned in closer. My surroundings were fading into darkness. 

“Say, you’re all alone here, aren’t you. Do you know what that means? Do you, demon!? You fucking faggot!?” He shouted with malice and fury. 

As I writhed about in desperation and felt my strength giving away, I remember one particular thought rising above all others, as though my whole existence was converging into one moment. It followed like this:  _ “So… this is human nature? Is this what people, all people, are deep down, on the inside? No; this is impossible. These are not human beings. These are animals. We are ALL animals. Human beings do not exist.” _

All went black after that, or so it felt. I don’t remember precisely if I actually passed out or not, but I do know that the very next moment, my head was fully above water, I was wide awake and coughing hoarsely, and that to disbelief impossible to replicate with words, Jack was now staring down the hall, clueless and according to his shocked posture, extremely terrified. He was standing to my left, Sean and Justin crouched just behind him, and though the other, Brandon, was still pinning me down, it was obvious that they had each stopped frozen in their tracks for the same reason. All four of them were staring fixedly at something moving in the shadows, a tall figure who had just emerged from the darkness of the next corridor. With slow, solemn steps he entered the open air, the pale, clouded sunlight falling upon him as he walked. His face, though half-shadowed along with the rest of his body, was noticeably thin and clever, with shiny, soaked black bangs that fell partially on his eyes. Something about his presence seemed to exude that he had been waiting long for something, to seize an opportunity of some remote kind, and that this was the moment he had finally been waiting for. 

“Hello, Jack,” he said in a low voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * N, who represents the human possessing the Purple Soul of Perseverance, will remain unnamed along with the other five former friends of Chara. Corresponding aliases for them will also be provided. However, in the particular case of N, because Chara specifically inserted three dashes (---) in between N and T, I wouldn't say his name is actually obscured at all.

**Author's Note:**

> * Chara uses the terms "The Headmaster" and "The Human" interchangeably to refer to the same person. Generally, however, they use "The Human" whenever the Headmaster (who will remain unnamed) is depicted in a particularly vile light or whenever he is mentioned to have been or be presently engaged in sadistic behavior.
> 
> * Chara has a naturally verbose, at times remarkably wordy style of narration. However, the opening sentences of the first chapter are left choppy and unrefined, conveying their initial reluctance and lack of enthusiasm in regards to writing a diary and telling such a painful story.
> 
> * "Connachti" refers to the inhabitants of Connacht, a province that comprises much of Western Ireland. Its dimidiated Coat of Arms depicts an eagle with outstretched wings on the left side, and the arm of an armored knight on the right, sword in hand, as though ready to be swung. 
> 
> * I acknowledge and take full responsibility for the fact that this story will probably end up being a dumpster fire on every imaginable level.
> 
> \- PATCH NOTES - 
> 
> * Most grammatical errors have been fixed.
> 
> * Some unnecessary words and adjectives have been eliminated.
> 
> * Originally I had chosen to set this story in Ireland in the aim of following from the once semi-popular theory that Undertale takes place beneath Ireland, but being as I know little about actual Irish culture, much less of any ways to make this story feel true to a setting I'm ironically ignorant of, I've decided to leave the setting entirely obscure. Furthermore, this is a story about how awful humans can be, thus, to single out any specific region would not merely be tactless or in poor taste, but completely tyrannical, and not to mention, it would contradict the message of Undertale itself.


End file.
